


With a Zed

by everyshootingstar



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF, Sex Swing (Web Series - Rooster Teeth)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Gen, M/M, Vigilante AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 07:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11008959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everyshootingstar/pseuds/everyshootingstar
Summary: After Max, Schling was sure he’d never get his life back on track. Self healing and slow burn friendships in the most unlikeliest of places.





	With a Zed

**Author's Note:**

> a thing I posted on my tumblr [here](http://shiphoose.tumblr.com/post/161015757255/with-a-zed-pre-schlingjamez), but am bringing over here because why not. special thanks to my bud kel for correcting my mistakes for me <3
> 
> wanna support me? u can totes buy me a [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/leeoser) if you want

Schling’s got no qualms about openly ogling the guy who comes into his coffee shop on Thursday afternoon to croon sort of ridiculous love songs, as if he’s some kind of out of towner Casanova type who exists only to break hearts.

He’s British at the very least, or very good at keeping his words, both spoken and sung, accented without really concentrating too hard; a talent for sure—and he’s got some sort of tattoo on his left arm, from Schling’s place at the counter he can just make out a line of music notes around his bicep, stark black against tanned skin; (he hates how his thoughts go immediately to jaded, like Schling himself doesn’t have a tattoo similar, lyrics around his upper right arm from the first song he ever wrote at the tender age of eighteen, when things were so _easy_.)

The guy usually leaves after his set, packs his guitar up, collects the two or three now empty bottles of water he goes through and whatever tips the small crowd gathered around the stage pitched into his guitar case, there’s no interaction other than the slight nod of his head as he leaves—he’s sort of mysterious in a way that intrigues Schling, makes him want to actually ask the guy for his name.

_‘scuse me, love,_ the guy says, drawing Schling out of his thoughts (he startles a little, fingers tightening on the rag he’d been scrubbing the counter with), he glances up to see a cocky sort of grin on the guy’s lips, arms crossed against his chest (and Schling has to scold himself for _staring_ , he can see the tattoo clearer now and it’s, yeah, it’s much like what he’d expected it to be.)

_Can I help you?_ He asks, tilting his head a little, he’s sure he makes a sight here, standing behind the counter in a pair of faded jeans with holes at the knees, a t-shirt that’s seen better days all covered by a pastel green apron (not his idea, honestly. Spunkie’s idea)—he doesn’t _really_ fit the whole _owner of the local coffee shop_ aesthetic.

Taking a seat on one of the stools in front of the counter, the guy leans his upper body against it, propping his chin up on his fist, _Got any tea? Been thirsty and water’s not doin’ the trick,_ he says, grin going a little crooked and Schling has to fight back the urge to actually _coo_ when the guy’s head tilts in question, he’s fuckin’ _adorable._

(Schling mentally thanks Spunkie for making sure to add tea to his vast menu of drinks, something about not everyone liked coffee but everyone liked the _aesthetic_ of a coffee shop.)

He nods, hums, _Yep,_ he says, _Name?_ he asks as he grabs a cup and a permanent marker from his apron ( _Black is boring, Schlingie, purple isn’t,_ he hears Spunkie’s voice in his head as he uncaps the marker and waits).

_Jamez with a zed,_ the guy says and Schling bites back a loud snort, he almost actually writes _Jamez with a zed_ on the cup because the name is _ridiculous,_ but, he’s got nothing to stand on because; he’s been out of the business for years now and he still can’t get rid of _Schling_ , the name he’d picked for himself at the beginning of his career.

He’s been working at this shop for a while now, but he’s yet to master the art of small talk during the window of time he’s preparing someone’s drink and it’s usually _odd_ , he’ll keep his back turned, big shoulders feeling awkward as he works through measuring out the various components of a drink and the customer will chatter on and he’ll hum and mutter an answer as if afraid of saying something wrong.

_Luckily_ , Jamez seems more engrossed in his phone, lips curled into a fond little smile that Schling feels like he shouldn’t be experiencing and so, he just goes back to brewing the tea, offering Jamez a small glance as he places the cup down on the counter on top of a napkin.

_Thanks love,_ he says almost immediately, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crumpled five dollar bill, _Keep the change_ and he _winks_ and Schling’s heart feels like it’s going to vibrate out of his chest right then, the _thudthudthud_ loud in his ears as he takes the money from Jamez.

Schling busies himself then by rearranging muffins and other sweets in the display case sitting on the counter; mentally counting the time in his head and cataloguing what needs to be changed out, all while _very_ aware that Jamez is still sitting at the counter, drinking casually from his cup—he wonders if Jamez can feel the nerves pouring off of him as he works; he’s not much of a people person since the stint in rehab, too many chances to fuck up again, he makes exceptions and still occasionally wonders if going into the business of running a coffee shop was the right decision but it’s busy work and he’s _happy_ to do it.

(It’s half past three; Spunkie’ll be in soon to pick up the paperwork, maybe he’ll even watch the shop for a bit so he can run out and get something real to eat—even if he doesn’t have time to go sit down and eat, leaving the shop for a few minutes will help with the headache that’s been building behind his eyes for the past few hours.)

_You alright?_ It’s Jamez again, he’s looking over at Schling now, _You’ve been starin’ at that muffin like it kicked your puppy, mate._

Schling lets out a breathless laugh, picking up the rag sitting close by the display case just so he’ll have something in his hands, _A muffin can’t kick a puppy,_ he says instead of answering the question and Jamez shrugs, _It’s nothing,_ Schling finally blurts out when the silence stretches between them, _Long day?_

_You **are** here every Thursday,_ Jamez says casually, picking up his cup and taking a sip from it, _Boss must really like your work ethic, eh?_

He’s picking at the rag, there’s loose threads on it now so he’ll probably end up retiring it back to cleaning the counters in the back soon, _I own the place,_ he mumbles out, _No one else really works here ‘cept my friend._ (Which is true in a sense. It’s a small place, there’s not much to do and even on the busiest of days, Schling can handle it—Spunkie only does the paperwork and the accounting for the place, keeps track of all the things Schling can’t anymore.)

Jamez is quiet now and when Schling glances over at him from the corner of his eye, he sees Jamez typing something out on his phone, _I’ve got a friend who’s looking for a job,_ he finally says, _He’s a pretty good handy man, in the very least. You two would get along I think._

The _why_ slips from his lips before he can stop himself and he bites his tongue, Jamez is good for business, he brings in extra customers every Thursday, a small entourage of people who enjoy his music and always sit at the tables closest to the makeshift stage, being tactless and rude isn’t _nice_.

The laugh that comes from Jamez startles Schling a little and he looks at him fully now, confusion on his face, _Relax, love,_ he says easily, _you don’t have to accept, just thought I’d throw it out there in case you’re looking for someone who can fix things if they break._

_I’ll uh, think about it,_ Schling says; it’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the offer because he does, because _maybe_ there were a few things he needed fixing around here that neither he nor Spunkie could fix, it’s just, after _everything_ , finding someone who _genuinely_ wants to help and not screw him over…

_Schlingie!_ Spunkie’s voice breaks him from his thoughts and the bell jingles above the door, _I see you’re taking to the pastel green splendidly!_ He says as he makes his way over to the counter and Schling feels a little caught up in everything, between Jamez’s openness and Spunkie’s sudden entrance, he’s a little… _overwhelmed._

_It is a nice color on ‘im,_ Jamez says with a cocky little grin and Schling’s heart thuds again, a flush crawling along his throat.

Spunkie looks between Schling and Jamez and Schling can almost see the wheels turning in his head now putting two and two together— _Who’s your friend, Schlingie?_ He asks, cocking a hip against the edge of the counter.

Schling clears his throat, _Jamez with a zed,_ he says, much to his own embarrassment and to Jamez’s amusement, _I mean, this is Jamez, he plays here on Thursdays._

Spunkie sticks his hand out and Jamez happily shakes it, “So you’re the one bringing in business every Thursday, then.” He says, tone all business in a way that sort of _worries_ Schling.

(After everything with Max, Schling is wary to trust, if it weren’t for Spunkie, Schling not sure he’d have ever scraped his ass off the floor of his little one bedroom apartment and went to rehab, he wouldn’t _be here_ _now_ if not for him but he also wouldn’t have lost about six years of his life if he hadn’t trusted Max to begin with…)

By the time he zones back in, Spunkie’s voice is at a happy lilt and he and Jamez are shaking hands again, _Schlingie! Great news baby! We’ve just hired our first real talent,_ he says and Schling’s eyes go wide, his mouth dropping open and all his protests fall silent as Spunkie suddenly whisks Jamez away off through the kitchen and to the back office.

_Fuck_ , he thinks, _Fuck, fuck **fuck** , _he’s sure Jamez is a nice guy but that’s one thing, _hiring him_ is a whole different thing, a thing that all boils down to _disappointment_ and _betrayal_ — _just like Max._

He presses his mouth into a thin line and closes his eyes for a moment, takes a minute to _breathe_ and then a soft cough draws him from his thoughts; he turns and puts on a big smile, _What can I get you?_

-

Schling starts seeing Jamez more than once a week, the guy constantly looks every bit the rock star he is, wild hair and tight pants, t-shirts with the sleeves cut off—Schling almost wants to tell him that he needs to wear something more _coffee shop appropriate_ except well, Schling’s a sort of _selfish_ guy and if Jamez is going to walk around like a wet dream then, Schling’s not going to _stop_ him.

He’s never around at night, which is fine with Schling because there’s not much that goes on after it gets dark—he’ll clean each machine, brew a couple of pots of regular coffee for the stragglers coming in off the streets just looking for a quick fix of cheap coffee, he starts packing up the marked down baked goods into cartons that he stores for the night (and Spunkie takes them down to the local food bank before the shop opens) and by the time he’s got everything cleaned and stocked, it’s time to mop and close up for the night.

It’s a routine he’s followed for several years now, nothing ever changes, even on the busiest days, everyone’s cleared out by eight and he closes by ten and then he retreats to the back where there’s a rickety set of stairs leading to the apartment above the shop—the only other person who has keys to it is Spunkie, but Spunkie’s a respectable sort of guy, he always calls and never intrudes even though he _could_.

Schling’s mopping up an area by the makeshift stage when he hears the door open, _I’ll be there in a second,_ he says, _Just gonna finish mopping right here, we don’t have any baked goods but I can brew some coffee if you—_

There’s something solid pressing into his lower back and Schling’s not an idiot, he _knows_ what the barrel of a gun feels like, _You’re going to walk real slow over to the counter and you’re going to give us the money._

Schling swallows heavily and nods, letting go of the mop—the handle falls and hits the side of the stage, the sound loud in the quietness of the shop, the click of the gun’s safety sliding off makes Schling briefly close his eyes, a thousand thoughts running through his mind as he side steps his way towards the counter.

He’s shaking, sweating by the time he rounds the counter, his fingers slip along the buttons on the register as he punches no sale, _T-there,_ he says, _Take it all, just don’t—_ the gun presses harder against his back and he shuts up as a bag is thrust over his shoulder; he takes the hint and starts shoving bills in there, pulling the drawer out so he can reach for the meager amount of bigger bills under it—it’s not much, thankfully, _thankfully_ , he’d emptied out most of it earlier and he _hopes_ that the guy doesn’t realize that.

When the register is empty, the bag is jerked away from him, _Stay right here, don’t fucking move,_ the voice whispers to him and then the heat’s gone and he stays facing the wall until he hears the door close—he’s frozen, fingers barely working as he pulls his phone from his pocket and calls Spunkie; it takes about ten minutes for Spunkie to coax what’s wrong out of him but when he finally does, the line goes quiet. _Go lock up, I’ll be there in ten minutes._

Schling’s still shaking, heaving and barely manages to lock the door before he’s sinking down to sit against it and bury his head in his hands, breathing shallowly.

(Spunkie finds him there, comes over to him and sits by him until the sirens approaching the shop grow louder and louder, _You can stay with me tonight,_ is whispered into his hair and Schling loses himself a little after that, floating in and out of awareness—and before he realizes it, he’s being tucked into Spunkie’s bed.)

-

Schling stays out of work for a few days afterwards, at Spunkie’s suggestion, and outside of working, he doesn’t have many other hobbies besides working but Spunkie has a house and a growing interest in cultivating a garden, so he spends most of the day looking for flowers and shrubs at one of the home improvement stores outside of the main city.

Several days later, he finds himself wandering down the street his shop’s on; he’d called Spunkie earlier to say he’d drop by, just to see how everything is despite Spunkie reassuring him that everything was running fine he didn’t _need_ to if he wasn’t _ready_ —and; _I want to go home,_ he’d admitted, voice small, sort of quiet, _I miss working, I’m not going to get past this if I don’t come back._

He takes a few minutes outside the shop, steadies himself before opening the door—immediately the smell of coffee and muffins assault his senses, _god_ he’s missed this place.

_Schling!_ An accented voice calls and it’s _Jamez_ behind the counter (and Schling ignores the way the pastel green of the apron brings out the blue of his eyes), he’s got a rag in hand and there’s a line of flour across his cheek and Schling’s filled with this strong feeling of _adoration_.

_You’ve got a little,_ he says, motioning towards his cheek and Jamez’s eyebrows quirk a little as he wipes at his cheek until the flour’s gone, _Where’s Spunkie?_

Jamez shrugs, _Went out to get stuff for the shop,_ he says, _Left me in charge, told me not to burn the place down,_ he scoffs, _I’ve been running it the past few days, who does he think he is?_

Schling bites the inside of his cheek, _Spunkie left you in charge?_

Jamez’s gaze is piercing, eyes narrowed a little, _Got a problem with it?_ he asks, _Took good care of your place here, didn’t even break anything fancy—can’t cook worth a shit so Spunkie did all’a that._

_I’m not—I, I mean,_ Schling stutters, flounders for an answer, he’s not _trying_ to be rude, he’s just— _Sorry,_ he says, shaking his head, _I’m. Thank you Jamez, I really appreciate it._ he scratches the back of his head, _I’m always wary of people watching over this place but I shouldn’t have come off so crass._

The silence stretches between them for a moment and then Jamez is grinning, _No problem, mate._

-

Schling retreats to his office shortly after, he tells Jamez he’s just going to look over some paperwork because he’s starting to forget since he hasn’t been at work lately, Jamez just shrugs and tells him to take a dark chocolate banana nut muffin and a cup of tea with him (and he does—he tries to pay but Jamez waves him off so he just shoves the money in the tip jar by the register and makes a mental note to tell Spunkie to empty the jar tonight and give the money to Jamez.)

He lets the door close behind him as he takes a bite of the muffin, Spunkie’s goods always tasted better than the ones he made, but then again, Spunkie’s been baking longer than he has; he flips the light on and pauses—on his desk is a manila envelope, there’s nothing on the front but…

Placing his cup of tea and muffin down on the desk, he picks the envelope up, it feels sort of heavy but not by much and sort of half empty; he debates asking Jamez about it, if maybe it’s something Spunkie left on the desk but he doesn’t, instead, he opens it—there’s a piece of paper visible just under the flap and he pulls it out.

_Sorry I wasn’t quick enough._

Inside, there’s bills, some folded and rumpled but unmistakably, the ones that were taken from the till the other night; he nearly drops them in his haste to go back to the front where Jamez is tending to a small group of teen girls who keep giggling and complimenting his accent— _Jamez,_ he says once the girls have left and there’s only a sleepy looking older man reading on one of the couches in the back, _Jamez, do you know who brought this envelope in?_

_Sorry love,_ Jamez says, _The guy who dropped it off earlier didn’t say much, just told me to make sure you got it,_ he shrugs and starts wiping at the counter, _Sorta beefy lookin’ bloke, wore a dumb lookin’ mask. Orange and black? Who even wears those colors outside of October?_

Schling’s a little speechless, _Oh,_ he licks his lips, _That’s uh. Wow, Spunkie had already accounted for the losses but…_ he trails off, _Wow, this is good. It’s really good._

-

(He doesn’t have to wait long to find out who’d dropped by the shop earlier in the week; it’s a Friday night and he’s outside smoking when someone walks up, shrouded in the shadows of the building—all that’s visible on the person’s face is his eyes, the brightest green Schling’s ever seen, surrounded by an orange and black mask.

_Oh._

There’s a huff and the figure leans against the side of the building, _Hi,_ he says, voice low—there’s a barely there hint of an accent but Schling can’t really make it out, _Did you get my gift?_

Schling licks his lips, _How’d you get my money back?_ He asks and looks down, _Not that I…not that I think you stole it or anything but…it’s the exact bills that were taken I mean…_

A gloved hand reaches out, fingers catching his chin, _I didn’t steal the money, I…took it back. For you._ He says, tilting Schling’s head back up, _I was in the neighborhood, saw two guys running out of your shop. Sorry it took so long to get it back to you, I didn’t catch them right away, needed to make sure I caught them before they spent any of it._

The silence stretches between them for a while, and the hand drops away—Schling almost misses its warmth, _Thank you,_ he finally whispers, biting his lower lip. _I’m. I don’t know how to repay you?_

There’s a huff and Schling looks up, _Don’t worry about it,_ he says with a wave of his hand, _It’s what I do. Correct wrong doings and all that. I’m a…vigilante of sorts._

Schling snorts, covers his mouth when the noise slips out, _I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. But. **Vigilante**?_

_Got your money back, didn’t I?_ he asks, _Called Ripher,_ and Schling looks up just in time to see the guy tip his hat and bow.

_Schling,_ he says back, _Nice to meet you?_

Ripher grins, _Mm, the pleasure’s all mine,_ he says and then when a comfortable silence fills the space, Ripher pushes away from the wall, _Gotta get going now, crime to stop and all that. I’ll see you around Schling._ )

-

Things sort of fall into a comfortable pattern shortly after, Jamez helps Schling most days at the shop, he still plays Thursday nights for tips and free baked goodies that Schling gives him during his breaks; he’s not necessarily an employee and offers to work for free, even if Schling insists that they split the tips from the tip jar evenly and Spunkie _tries_ to slip him some pay _under the table_ , of course, it’s not an official sort of deal but it works.

(Schling’s not sure how he feels about Spunkie _and_ Jamez spending so much time at the shop, Spunkie’s got his own life now, he’s not solely responsible for Schling anymore; but every time Schling asks about it, Spunkie just shrugs and tells him he enjoys seeing his face daily—he’s not an idiot though, he knows that the both of them are _watching_ now, ever since the robbery, Spunkie’s been protective, making sure that Schling never closes by himself anymore, waits until he’s locked all the doors and is halfway up the stairs before leaving.)

Schling comes down the stairs one morning, freshly showered and half asleep, to the sounds of voices in the shop and he panics for a moment until he catches Spunkie’s high lilting tone over the buzz in his head; unlocking the door that leads into the kitchen, he pushes it open, pausing when he sees Jamez and Spunkie standing by one of the ovens—they’re not alone though, there’s a tall blond man messing with the front display of an oven and he pauses.

_Schlingie!_ Spunkie says, moving across to the kitchen to greet him, _Good morning, did you sleep well?_ He asks, brushing some hair that’d stuck to Schling’s cheek, still wet, behind his ear.

He hums, leans into Spunkie’s touch briefly because it’s _nice_ , he _enjoys_ how tactile Spunkie is, _As good as one can,_ he says, yawns big and then focuses on the strange man standing over by the ovens, _Who’s your friend?_

_My pal Tommy, mentioned him before, hope you don’t mind._ Jamez answers this time, _Oven messed up this morning and we didn’t wanna wake you, Tommy’s pretty good at fixin’ things as long as he didn’t break ‘em._

Tommy briefly looks up and offers a friendly nod, _Thermostat is shot,_ he says, voice a little gruff, _An easy fix though. Tommy’s got this._

Jamez pats Tommy on the shoulder, _Not a man of many words, unfortunately, great guy though. Housed me when I first moved to the good ol’ US of A._

Spunkie leans in close, _He’s not really looking for a job but he’s agreed to help us with repairs and general maintenance. He’s apparently a **big** fan of your dark chocolate banana nut muffins._

Tommy must hear because he grunts and looks up, _They’re not as sweet as the ones that Jamez brings when he’s been working here. They’re better._

It sounded more like a jab at Spunkie’s baking ability but Spunkie takes it in stride and bounds over to Tommy, _You’re a funny man. What’s the damage?_

He tunes them out then, focuses on waking up more and wondering how he went from running a coffee shop with open mic nights alone, to having a small staff of people willing to help him (minus Spunkie, who’s _always_ helped him).

Jamez’s presence brings him out of his thoughts and he glances over, _Sorry we didn’t consult you first, Spunkie **really** didn’t wanna wake you._

Surprisingly, Schling finds himself not mad at all, there’s a bit of relief mixed in there with _something_ _else_ he can’t quite place, maybe _warmth_? Whatever it is, he’s been feeling it more since Jamez had introduced himself nearly a month an a half ago and became a very regular part of his routine.

(Part of him wonders if Jamez and now Tommy, are ever going to leave, because people always leave—he’s seen in the past; with _Max_ , who’d easily left once he had what he wanted.)

_It’s alright, really,_ Schling says, smiling at Jamez, _I appreciate the thought, and the help. A lot._

-

Jamez is late for the first time in three months, not that Jamez has a schedule really, but he’s never later than ten in the mornings, always bouncing through the door—Schling makes him tea now, has it ready for him by the time he’s made it to the back; but ten goes by and so does ten-fifteen, and ten-thirty and the tea’s gone cold now but that’s the least of Schling’s worries.

He sends a text to Spunkie and then one to Tommy and finally one to Jamez’s phone, just in case he’d overslept—but Spunkie’s just as confused and Tommy doesn’t reply and Schling’s left feeling _weird_ , like this is the first step of being let down _again_.

Sometime after noon, Schling’s sweeping outside, there’s no one in the shop and the streets are quiet; he hears it then, heavy feet on the side walk but he doesn’t think much about it until the sound comes skidding to a halt; _Mate, I am **so** sorry_ —and Schling wants to _cry_ , he thinks, the tension in his chest releasing as he hears Jamez’s voice.

Jamez has a black eye, is the first thing that Schling notices, and one of his arms is wrapped from wrist to elbow in a bandage but he’s grinning wide and looks _happy_ to see Schling, _My phone got ruined,_ he says, _I was going to call you but—_

Schling grabs him by his good arm, pulls him towards the door, _It’s alright,_ he says, _It’s fine Jamez, it’s, I’m glad you made it._ he admits quietly once they’re inside and when he glances over at Jamez, he looks small, shoulders hunched, he’s got a little smile on his lips, something _fond_ that makes Schling’s heart thump against his ribs.

After sitting Jamez down on one of the stools, he starts making another cup of tea and while the water heats up, he scribbles out a sign on a sheet of paper, black ink reading _Closed for lunch, be back in 15._

_You don’t—_ Jamez starts to protest, but when he sees the frown on Schling’s lips, he stops, watches as Schling locks up and draws the shades across the door and the large display window. He doesn’t speak until after he’s gotten Jamez’s tea made and there’s a slice of cherry pie (oddly enough, Jamez’s favorite) sitting in front of him, _What happened?_ He finally asks, voice quiet and shaky.

Jamez doesn’t speak at first, takes time to drink from his cup of tea and eat a bite of pie, humming when the flavor is _just_ right, _First of all, the pie is delicious; you’re gettin’ better mate._ He smiles at Schling who just looks a little haunted and Jamez’s eyes widen a little, _Oh no, **no** , whatever you’re thinkin’ I promise it was definitely not as bad. _He says reassuringly, placing his fork down and reaching out to cover Schling’s hand (fingers tapping, tapping, tapping against the counter in a display of nerves), _Went out and got a little drunk, got into a fight because someone looked at me wrong, lost my phone; think it got smashed and Tommy was too drunk to get me home so I crashed at his place._

Schling doesn’t speak, just nods stiffly as if he’s unsure of what to say, but after a few minutes of Jamez’s fingers tapping out a soothing pattern along the back of his hand, he loosens, exhales and lets his shoulders sink, _Don’t do it again,_ he finally mumbles. _I was worried about you._ (And he hates how small his voice sounds when he says it but Jamez seems to understand, squeezes Schling’s hand tightly before letting go.

He misses the warmth.).

-

The problem is, that’s not the _last_ time that Jamez shows up to work bruised or beaten up, cuts adorning his lip and dried blood stained bandages on his arms and it worries Schling but Jamez just brushes him off, tells him it’s the British blood in him, wanting to pick bar fights—it’s a thinly veiled excuse but Tommy won’t budge either and he’s _worried_.

He doesn’t expect to see Ripher again, not after the first time, things have calmed down and there’s been _no reason_ to see him around the shop, so when Schling’s out walking one night and comes across _Ripher_ , he pauses and then, _Ripher?_ He asks.

Ripher turns around, there’s a hat obscuring most of his face and Schling can _just barely_ make out the orange and black mask around his eyes, _Oh hey!_ His voice is happy and jovial sounding, _What brings you out here?_

Schling shrugs, shoving both hands into the pocket of his hoodie, _Walking. Clearing my mind._ He says, _What are you doing?_

There’s a cocky smirk on Ripher’s lips, _Getting rid of the trash,_ he says, _doing some rounds before I head in for the night. Streets are awfully quiet._

When the silence spreads between them, Schling lets it, he nods at Ripher as a way to bow out of the conversation but Ripher ends up walking him back to the shop, they don’t really speak besides Schling’s quiet protests that he can walk himself and Ripher’s _I’m just doing my job_.

The coffee shop comes up sooner than Schling expects and soon they’re just standing outside the door, his keys are in his hand, _Ripher?_ He finally murmurs, frowning deep, _Can I…ask you a favor?_

It must catch Ripher off guard, but he’s quick to nod, _Of course, Schling._

_My coworker…I mean, my friend, Jamez, the guy you gave the money to, to give back to me? Can you. Is there,_ he pauses, frown deepening until his lips feel tingly from how hard he’s pressing them together, _It’s dumb but. He’s been…getting into a lot of fights lately, I know it’s a long shot but. Could you…,_ he trails off, _If you happen to see him in a fight could you…help him? I’m. Really worried about him. I don’t know if he’s telling me the truth but. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him._

Ripher’s quiet for a bit and when Schling glances up, Ripher’s watching him with a strange look on his face, something hard to make out in the shade of the brim of his hat, _I’ll watch him, Schling._ He finally says, voice soft. _I’ll keep an eye out for him._

-

Jamez shows up to work early the next day, marches into the kitchen through the back entrance, doesn’t stop moving until he’s face to face with Schling—and—the hug shocks him, makes him freeze for a moment before remember that _he loves physical contact_ and he sinks into the hug; and if he hides his face in Jamez’s chest for a moment, well, neither of them say anything.

_That bloke with the weird mask helped me out last night, told me someone was worried about me,_ Jamez whispers, squeezing Schling, _I’ve been a little reckless lately and I’m sorry for worrying you._

Schling bites back a sound, a _sob_ , because this, _this_ right here is all he’s wanted, for Jamez to be _safe_ , even if he’s out there picking fights with people at bars, _You’re so stupid_ , he says instead, wraps his arm around Jamez’s waist.

-

Something _shifts_ after that and Schling doesn’t notice it at first, doesn’t notice it until one Thursday night when Jamez is up there crooning some sort of love song on stage (Wonderwall, _Jesus Christ,_ Jamez) and Spunkie nudges him, _You two a thing now?_ He asks, keeping his voice low so no one hears him.

Schling huffs quietly, _No Spunkie,_ he says, _We’re not._

Spunkie stares at him, raises an eyebrow and then nudges him in the side again, _Yeah? Why’s he staring at you while singing then?_

When Schling looks over at the stage, Jamez is staring right at him, voice never wavering once as he sings, even as the song ends and he starts another one up, he’s _still_ staring.

(He finds, it doesn’t weird him out as much as it could, honestly.)

-

As Schling is heading through the kitchen to his apartment one night, there’s a steady knocking, almost _pounding_ on the front door of the shop—he’s worried for a moment that it’s someone trying to break in, but then the knocking stops; he’s turning around to head up the stairs when there’s a loud _thump_ and what sounds like a pained cry.

He fights the shakiness he feels, squeezes his hands together and heads out of the kitchen, creeping carefully through the darkened shop; there’s a figure at the door, hunched over onto the glass and he moves closer, catching the sight of tired, green eyes peering through the glass at him.

_Ripher!_ He says loudly, hurrying to unlock the door, stumbling when Ripher falls inside, all of his weight landing on Schling, _Oh god, are you alright?_

Ripher’s voice is strained, _Jus’ a little scratch,_ he says, _I’ll be alright love._

Schling freezes, he didn’t hear that right, Ripher doesn’t speak like Jamez, _Ripher_ isn’t _Jamez,_ he steadies himself and hauls Ripher inside, _Do you need a hospital?_ He asks, voice soft and hushed.

_Nah,_ Ripher says, and his voice sounds a little bit more like _Ripher_ but he can’t get the fact that he sounded, albeit briefly, like Jamez, from his mind. _Just a first aid kit maybe. Bandage me up?_

It takes him a few minutes to get Ripher inside, the doors locked and him upstairs, _Sorry it’s messy,_ he says, voice hushed as he carefully leads him to the couch, _I’m in the process of trying to clean some._

Ripher doesn’t say anything but his breathing’s no longer labored and Schling can see that he’s starting to get some color back to his cheeks, _What happened?_ He finally asks once he’s gotten a first aid kit and Ripher’s pointed him to a nasty looking scratch down his side.

It takes him a while to answer, and when he does, his voice is low and wobbly, _Got into a fight,_ he says with a murmur, _Other guy had a big knife_ and Schling just frowns, dabs at the cut some more until he’s cleaned most of the dried blood off.

_Who usually cleans your cuts for you?_ Schling asks, looking up at Ripher, who’s face is still shrouded in shadows, _I mean, why’d you come here?_ It comes out more blunt than he wants it to, but Ripher doesn’t seem to be too upset about it.

Ripher tilts his head and from this angle, Schling can just barely make out the slope of his nose, _Couldn’t make it far enough to my place,_ he says simply, _You were here, at least, I’d hoped you’d be._

The silence settles as Schling works on bandaging the cut now, he’s more focused on making sure he gets the bandage taped properly to his skin, with enough gauze that it won’t bleed through, that he doesn’t notice until he’s done that Ripher’s fallen asleep.

_Ripher?_ He says, but Ripher stays silent, breathes deep and even, sprawled out on Schling’s couch and he debates on waking him up—he doesn’t, in the end, just stands up and takes the gauze and first aid kit to the kitchen; it would be _so easy_ to peek under Ripher’s hat and see who he _really_ is…

…but Ripher _trusts_ him, at least on some level, and what little he knows about superheroes or vigilantes or _whatever_ Ripher is; their identity is _important_ and a _secret_.

He sighs, instead, grabbing an extra blanket and throwing it over Ripher’s lax body on the couch, making sure he’s properly on the couch before disappearing into his bedroom for the night.

Somehow, the idea of Ripher being there makes him sleep easier.

-

There’s a note for him when he makes it out of the bedroom the next morning—its scribbled down neatly across a piece of yellow legal pad paper; _Thank you for helping me._

It’s short and sweet and Schling shakes his head, a little smile on his lips as he grabs the blanket from the couch to fold it properly and store it away for later—he’s not telling himself _just in case_ , doesn’t want to get his hopes up or anything but—Ripher’s company was _nice_ , even if they spent most of the time sitting in silence while Schling bandaged a wound.

Schling flounders around upstairs for a while, sends off a few text messages to Jamez and Spunkie, letting them know he’ll open the shop a little late today; it’s not unheard of or anything, but Spunkie still seems concerned—Jamez’s answer is a thumbs up emoji and _be in at 12 then_.

It’s eight AM before he makes his way downstairs to the kitchens; he’ll open at ten this morning, it’s Sunday, after all, and no one really wants coffee this early—most people still asleep or straggling to twenty-four hour diners for caffeine and grease, not that he’s judging because once, long ago, before rehab, he’d been one of those people too.

He’s baking a batch of muffins when the back door opens and Spunkie comes inside, carrying a takeout box full of _something_ that smells _amazing_.

_Made you breakfast, Schlingie,_ he says cheerfully and then sends Schling off to eat while he finishes up in the kitchen and by ten, the doors are unlocked and the baked goods are all in their cases—Spunkie leaves shortly after, a kiss to Schling’s hair and the promise he’ll drop by later once he’s done running errands and taking money to the bank.

The morning goes by as a slow crawl, it’s not an unpleasant one by any means, but business wanes and he _almost_ regrets opening so early—but by the time eleven hits, there’s several customers inside, seated at tables, the shop warm and comfortable, the conversation melding together into a pleasant buzz inside Schling’s head.

There’s a warm presence by Schling’s shoulder and he tilts his head to the side, glancing up at Jamez, who must have come through the back entrance, standing to his left—he looks a little pale, a little tired, but his smile is bright and sends a warmth through Schling, _Jamez,_ he says, voice just above a whisper.

_Schling,_ he answers back, rests his hand on his shoulder briefly and Schling leans into it—Jamez’s palm is large, warm against his bare skin, _How’s business?_

Schling _really_ doesn’t want to talk business, honestly, he _really_ wants to know what kissing Jamez is like, or what his hands feel like if they’re gripping his hips or holding his hand but; _Slow but not too slow,_ he says instead, _We’re already out of banana nut muffins._

Jamez laughs, _Not the dark chocolate ones, right? Tommy’ll have my head if I don’t bring him a half dozen._

_There’s already some waiting for him,_ Schling says and when he finally turns to look at Jamez, he pauses, _Did you get into another fight?_ He asks, taking in the darkened bruise around Jamez’s eye.

A sheepish shrug, _Just can’t help myself, mate._ Jamez looks sheepish, _Hey now, don’t give me that look. I’m not starting them, just fighting with some drunken bastards who don’t know how to shut up._

_The life of a retired Rockstar, huh? Gotta chase that adrenaline somehow, right?_ Schling teases and Jamez snorts, _Mm, yeah, sure mate. The adrenaline from running a coffee shop must be high, right?_

Schling laughs and stands up from the stool he’d been seated on, bumping his shoulder against Jamez’s, _Watch the front while I go get us some lunch._

-

Jamez favors his right side for most of the day and for a right handed dominate person, he’s oddly enough, using his left hand for most everything—it’s strange but Schling doesn’t say anything about it, just offers him longer breaks and keeps to standing on his left side; if Jamez is in trouble he’ll come to Schling, but it’s _not_ Schling place to pry, even if he’s concerned.

_You can leave early if you want,_ Schling says later on that evening once everything’s slowed down, there’s only a few stragglers now, coming in to grab a quick cup of coffee to-go before heading on their way and he can tell Jamez is on the fence about leaving, _Seriously, you’re hurting. Go on. I’m closing up soon anyway, it’ll be **fine**_.

Jamez’s frown is deep, but he eventually gives in, letting Schling help him untie the apron, _I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow,_ Schling promises him, pushing him towards the kitchen with gentle hands on his back; it’s sort of _worrying_ how odd Jamez is acting, as if he’s expecting something to happen.

By the time Schling’s ushered him out the door, the shop is empty—it’s a little nerve wracking, being there by himself now, especially after _that night_ , but it gives Schling a chance to think; his life has changed _so much_ in the past few months, something he’s grateful for, really.

Jamez and Tommy add a certain flavor to his life, something he’d been _missing_ since Max left a gaping hole where his trust and confidence used to be and he owes all of that to Jamez’s tendency to sing stupid love songs during open mic nights on Thursdays.

_Fuckin’ Wonderwall,_ Schling mutters to himself, shaking his head as he wipes up some sticky coffee from one of the tables; the rest of the night’s quiet and only when Schling’s upstairs and settling into bed, does he notice the unread text on his phone.

_I like you. Fancy getting some drinks with me?_

Warmth fills him as he stares at the message, a small smile crossing his lips as he types back an affirmative—for the first time since _everything_ that happened with Max, he goes to sleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
